


Double Edged

by partypaprika



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arrogant Warrior Prince/Sensible Ex-Soldier Capable of Fighting Him to a Draw - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-25 00:22:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21108425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/pseuds/partypaprika
Summary: Irminhart had thought to keep the match quick and relatively painless--to allow this man to escape with most of his dignity intact. One could not speak to a prince of Rothier in such a manner and not expect to pay some price. Only as time dragged on, did Irminhart see what he had missed in passing. The man sparred with the perfect stiff-rod posture of a man trained in the army. A man who had marched a thousand times, his commander yelling at him for even the slightest imperfection.It shouldn't have mattered. Itshouldn'thave made a difference. Irminhart was the best swordsman of his generation. And yet...





	Double Edged

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sombregods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/gifts).

> For sombregods, I hope that you enjoy!

Irminhart almost cast up his accounts when he caught a whiff of the kitchen’s trash, wafting through the training yard. Despite the fact that all of his other senses were dulled by the too-bright sun and the pounding in his head, his sense of smell refused to be dampened, picking out the scent of refuse even though the kitchen was on the far end of the yard.

For not the first time that morning, Irminhart cursed Paschalis and Ortolf who had bullied him into drinking last night after the evening meal to mark the end of the festival of feasting. Now Irminhart was paying the price.

“You will continue to stand at attention,” Lieutenant Commander Noldil said, his voice carrying through the courtyard. Irminhart felt another drop of sweat trickle down his back beneath his cuirass. He kept his attention focused entirely straight ahead, although his ears were primed to catch any sound of fidgeting or movement from his men. They were not alone though—all troops stationed at the palace, excluding those on active duty, were aligned perfectly in formation, awaiting the Lieutenant Commander’s pleasure. And upon the completion of a public holiday, his pleasure was sure to be long-held.

Another smell of trash—something fish related—turned Irminhart’s stomach and he hated both himself and Paschalis and Ortolf with a viciousness that promised a turnabout reward. Only the knowledge that a significant portion of his majesty’s troops surrounding him were also in an advanced state of crapulence made Irminhart feel remotely better. He’d seen two of his three lieutenants dancing on a table in a dubious tavern last night, mangling the tune, if not the lyrics to “Sanne’s Evening Past”.

Skies, he wished the plague upon everyone—if only he could get out of the direct sunlight and get some relief for the war beat in his head, he would leave an offering for Zephryne herself. But the blessed balm took its time in arriving, Noldil keeping them at attention until the sun stood directly above the troops and then Noldil finally directly the men to their paces.

Irminhart led his company to their usual spot in the yard and led them through their drills. Irminhart was the captain of three units, although his father took to saying that a real captain would have had six or seven units under his control. According to his father, Irminhart may as well have been a lieutenant rather than a captain. That was not the sole disagreement that Irminhart had with his father over his position.

Irminhart’s lieutenants took their squads and paired up the men, running them through their usual exercises. Irminhart watched for a few minutes, zeroing in on the mistakes from the men.

“Soldier Wenczel, if you continue to drop that arm, you will lose it.”

“Soldier Laur, when your opponent gives you a blatant opening like the one Soldier Gerhardt just gave you, I will fight you myself if you don’t take it.”

And on and on it went, the bees buzzing in Irminhart’s head as the soldiers buzzed around the training yard, the sweat continuing to drop down and itch just where Irminhart couldn’t reach it.

Eventually, Irminhart dismissed his men and went to find his own partner to run through his paces. He spotted Henel finishing up his own unit’s drills, nodding approvingly at the dull thud of practice swords coming together. Irminhart felt himself beginning to grin as he made his way over to Henel, his blood beginning to simmer.

The training yard was already mostly empty, which meant that there would be few people to watch the match, but Irminhart put that aside. When he reached Henel, he stood there, waiting as Henel’s unit dispersed, the men sweaty but smiling, cuffing each other on the shoulders and backs as they headed to the baths in order to wash up.

Irminhart knew the exact moment that Henel saw Irminhart, his gaze narrowing and his jaw clenching taut.

Irminhart smiled widely. “Captain Henel, would you honor me with a match?”

Henel bowed his head in an approximation of respect. “My prince honors me,” he said, the words coming out biting and sharp. A few of the remaining captains and lieutenants looked over around the training yard and Irminhart could just about taste the victory in all respects.

They took up their positions across from each other and tapped their practice swords together twice. Henel barely waited the required five seconds before he was upon Irminhart, darting forward with his sword, as if Irminhart was a recruit fresh from the fields with turnips for feet.

Irminhart let Henel attack for a few minutes, never letting him close enough for any contact. Despite the blaze of anger from Henel’s eyes, he was a patient sword fighter—many a man had let their frustration get the better of them, exposing themselves in their attack and allowing Irminhart the easy victory with a quick pivot and cut.

When a large enough crowd had gathered around them, men appraising the two of them, Irminhart took action. He parried one of Henel’s thrusts and advanced directly into Henel’s space, Henel’s sword coming up in the nick of time. His face snapped closed and he met Irminhart’s thrust by pushing back with equal momentum.

They moved back and forth—Irminhart cataloguing each of Henel’s patterns, already as familiar to him as a child’s lessons—Henel’s inclination towards a third position defense and his iron guard pivot showing up again and again.

They were both working hard now—sweat gathered around Irminhart’s temples and soaked through his shirt. He saw the glisten of sweat collecting at the base of Henel’s throat and Irminhart smiled again.

Henel bared his teeth at Irminhart in response and Irminhart could have laughed with delight. His blood kept rising and he leaped forward and moved down, swinging his sword tightly against Henel’s knees, causing Henel to grunt with pain. Then Irminhart surged up, meeting Henel’s aborted thrust and knocking Henel’s sword from his hand with the hilt of Irminhart’s sword.

Henel’s sword clattered to the ground and he stood there, Irminhart’s sword at his throat, panting and eyes glittering with rage.

Henel and Irminhart had jockeyed for Irminhart’s current position, which Irminhart had rightfully won a few months past. A month ago, Henel had loudly proclaimed while out drinking that Irminhart had only been appointed captain of the Fifth because he was a prince. Irminhart had sparred with him every training day they’d both attended since.

Henel’s anger poured off of him and, finally, for the first time that morning, Irminhart felt something like a good mood settle over him.

“I yield, Prince Irminhart,” Henel said, his teeth gritted and each word forced out into the otherwise-silent courtyard.

Irminhart smiled in triumph. “I accept, Captain Henel,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were accepting a glass of wine. If looks could kill, Henel would have been halfway to sending Irminhart to his long sleep. Irminhart savored the moment.

Slowly, Irminhart removed his sword, the sun glinting off of it and reflecting around the yard. When Henel was free, he stood up straight and bowed stiffly, the creak of his armor and ruffle of his leather skirt the only sounds around them. Irminhart bowed as well, the other captains and lieutenants around them starting to move and talk as well, and then made his way across the yard, blood singing in jubilation.

Paschalis and Ortolf caught up with Irminhart as he had cleaned up in the army’s bathing rooms. “I should have both of you thrown into the snake pits,” Irminhart said. “Especially you, Paschke. You promised men and women of good looks and poor-repute and all I got were drunken soldiers singing good songs poorly.”

Paschalis, son of Niclawes, minister of the treasury, was a man almost as tall as Irminhart. He could hit a target from twenty rute away and currently was captain of the Tenth—one of the archery cohorts of the army. Irminhart couldn’t claim to surpass Paschalis’s archery feats, as Paschalis was ever fond of demonstrating, but he could reliably hit a man from fifteen rute and they’d trained together for much of their childhood.

Ortolf, one of Irminhart’s many cousins, was roughly as large as three men put together and looked like he could stop a bear by sitting on it. He’d claimed to have scared away a rabid boar last summer and it wasn’t the most improbable thing that Irminhart could think of.

They’d been friends since they were children, growing especially close when they all joined the army at the usual age of twelve.

“Irke, how about I make it up to you with some lunch at the marktplatz?” Paschalis said. “I’ve got to buy Nyze a gift…”

Irminhart glared but he was in too good of a mood from the trouncing that he’d given to Henel to refuse.

“Ah, you’re smiling,” Paschalis said. “I heard that you won your match against Henel—that’s ten times now?”

Irminhart grinned more at that and let Paschalis lead them out of the barracks into town.

The army barracks lay on the north side of the castle, adjoining it and enclosed by the palace walls. The stone walls rose up over the city, throwing a shadow over the adjoining streets. The walls were staffed by on-duty palace guards and the guards watched the three of them leave through the main gate with envy.

Rothmar boasted several market squares but the marktplatz had formed when the city was still in its infancy and the castle little more than the large hall. Farmers and traders would bring their goods into town, although these days many of the artisans and merchants lived within the city walls of Rothmar. Farmers still brought their goods in along the People’s Road, which followed along the Frix River up into the mountains and, in the other direction, lead all the way to the Trident and Sea of Finstarenesso.

Irminhart had seen the sea a long time ago, but he could barely remember it and didn’t care to renew the memory.

At this time of day, the marktplatz was filled with stalls and merchants and Paschalis took his time as they browsed, searching for the perfect gift for the latest girl he was trying to impress. One could find almost anything at the marktplatz—stall after stall filled with delicious foodstuffs; silver and lapis-worked rings, hammered delicately into the shape of a deer or bird; sweet smelling perfume for a young lady’s toiletries; even exotic pets, like a gold-spotted perch or a snapping frog.

Paschalis selected a glass vase, colored flowers twining around it, and paid the merchant eagerly, smiling proudly as she wrapped it up.

“I think Nyze will like this,” Paschalis said, smiling to himself and no doubt thinking of the extended liberties that Nyze would allow Paschke to take. Irminhart rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure that she will love it,” Irminhart said. Ortolf said the same thing, although he sounded like he actually meant it. That turned out to be a mistake as Paschalis latched onto that string of hope and started to proclaim just how much he was in love with Nyze. Gods save Irminhart from such idiocy.

They turned the corner and Paschalis, so engrossed with his story, missed the man coming towards him.

The two collided with a loud noise and Paschalis, never especially hefty, rocked back from the other man. The man was slightly shorter but as firmly built as a small homestead and his mass carried him forward.

Paschalis dropped his package in his attempt at balance, and the stranger fell forward as well, landing awkwardly on the ground, the vase shattering next to the two of them.

For a moment, everyone stood still in shocked silence and then Paschalis looked down at the ground, his hopes for Nyze broken and his jaw locked.

“I suggest that you apologize to my friend,” Irminhart said.

The man turned his face up and Irminhart finally got a good look at him. He wore his hair cropped close and had blue eyes that blazed out, meeting Irminhart’s gaze. Slowly the man stood, his grey-blue jacket buttoned tightly, sword sheathed to his side and his posture stiff. There was a scrape on his chin, presumably from the fall.

“Excuse me?” the man said, his farmers’ accent thick, like he was speaking with ice in his mouth.

“I said,” Irminhart said more loudly, “that I suggest you apologize to my friend. And promptly.”

The man gave Irminhart a once-over and Irminhart knew exactly what he saw. A man of some considerable height with brown hair pulled tightly back, wearing the dark-brown uniform of an off-duty soldier.

“I believe that we have both failed to pay attention to our surroundings,” the man said, his voice measured and calm.

“No,” Irminhart said. The man met his gaze easily and Irminhart refused to give an inch to the farmer who clearly didn’t understand a wheat row from a city back-alley. Irminhart smiled, an idea coming to him quickly. “How about we settle this with a simple match?”

“A match?” the man said and Irminhart could have groaned with what an idiot this man appeared to be.

“Yes—a match. A duel, just to a yield,” Irminhart said. “If I win, you apologize to my friend and buy him a new gift for his lady love. If I happen to lose, I apologize for the error.”

The man kept his eyes trained on Irminhart. Something about it made Irminhart want to shrink beneath it, but he was no youth to be cowed by some cub-footed farmer.

“Shall we settle this now?” the man asked eventually and Irminhart heard the exhalation of Ortolf and Paschalis behind him—likely with concern that the king would find out about this. Irminhart waved off their concern. His father would never find out about this.

“Yes,” Irminhart agreed. “Are you amenable to the Regenz gardens?”

The man just looked at Irminhart expectantly and Irminhart realized that this man was waiting for Irminhart to lead the way. Irminhart set off, the man at his heels—if he had been any kind of a threat, Irminhart wouldn’t have shown his open back, but this man’s sword had likely been passed down from his father or grandfather and rested over the fireplace as a story prop.

Irminhart walked through the side street leading from the marktplatz to what had once been a pleasure garden. Paschalis’s earlier ease was gone, replaced with a stiff intimidation. Ortolf looked nervous, as if he expected the King’s Guard to appear from behind every corner.

But no one approached them as they came out onto the People’s Road, making their way towards the edge of the walled city to the Regenz gardens.

The gardens had been designed as a hidden world where a many-times prior queen and her lover could meet in private. They bordered Zephryne’s temple and were a riot of color during the spring and fall, with beautiful blooming and fragrant plants and tree. Small pathways led throughout the wooded areas starting from a large pavilion in front, where members of Rothmar’s public could now meet and enjoy.

It was noon and so the front of the gardens were busy with children running, parents shouting, merchants selling candy and sweet cheese rolls. Irminhart avoided the crowd, staying to the north of the gardens, and went past the large pond, waterlilies growing amongst it, over a small bridge and then unlatched a gate to a walled courtyard.

Ortolf hissed in a breath and Paschalis’s mouth stretched thin.

“And no one will disturb us here?” the man asked. He looked around the courtyard, his eyes moving quickly as if Irminhart had planned for an ambush of the man here. As if the farmer would deserve such an effort!

“Yes,” Irminhart said. “We shall be undisturbed.” Privately, he thought that it was unlikely that even if there was an opportunity to be disturbed that it could happen, the match would barely last longer than a quick chuckle.

The man finished looking around and nodded once, decisively. “Then let us begin.”

Irminhart withdrew his sword, a shinning steel beauty as long as his arm, catching the sun as the edges seemed to dance. It had been made by Nehya herself and given to Irminhart by his mother upon attaining his captaincy.

The man withdrew his own sword. Although its sheath had been crumbling and rotted brown leather, the sword it held was finer than Irminhart expected. Its coloring was paler than Irminhart’s steel and Irminhart spared a thought to wonder at just what this man’s grandfather had once been up to.

But it was no matter, because the man thrust his sword to the side and Irminhart did the same as they both bowed to each other. They looked up and brought their swords together to meet twice and then at exactly the allotted five seconds, Irminhart attacked.

Irminhart had thought to keep the match quick and relatively painless—to allow this man to escape with most of his dignity intact. No one could speak to Irminhart with such flagrant disrespect and not expect there to be a cost. Irminhart would allow him some gentle sparing and then would disarm him.

And for the first thirty or so seconds, it went according to plan. They each advanced, they retreated, no progress was made. Just when Irminhart began to get bored, he feinted, going to the left and planning to catch the man on the right. But the man was there—already well positioned for Irminhart’s attack.

The same thing occurred a minute later—when Irminhart went low. And then again, when Irminhart looked to draw the man into attacking Irminhart and exposing his chest. Each time, the attack yielded absolutely nothing.

They kept moving, back and forth, forth and back. Time dragged on and Irminhart realized that he was sweating from exertion. Irminhart’s eyes snapped to the man’s and for the first time, Irminhart saw the man’s posture for what it was—the stiff-rod posture of a man trained in the army. A man who had marched a thousand times, his commander yelling at him for even the slightest imperfection.

But it was of little consequence, Irminhart told himself. If the man was in the army, plenty of men were still in the army, trained daily and Irminhart could beat them blindfolded with his one hand tied behind his back.

Irminhart pressed on, moving in close, extending himself out as if to expose his body. When the man lunged forward, Irminhart neatly sidestepped it, bring up his sword—but wait! The man’s sword was already there, parrying Irminhart’s thrust and pushing back with enough force that his sword almost touched Irminhart’s chest.

They both sprang apart, Irminhart panting slightly, but the man stood just as still, his eyes focused on Irminhart, breath even. With a jolt, Irminhart realized that the man had been winding him up, controlling the fight the entire time.

With a roar, Irminhart leaped back in, holding nothing back and the stranger met him head-on. His sword hand was impeccable, his stance and positioning faultless. This man had studied with masters—if he wasn’t a master himself. And for what? He’d been a true swordsman and then gone on to farm?

The logic of that made Irminhart even angrier—the thought that he could have fought against this man rather than swill like Henel made his blood pound. And still they kept fighting, swords clashing loudly, sweat dripping down Irminhart’s shirt, soaking it through, despite the shade overhead.

What Ortolf and Paschalis thought of this, Irminhart couldn’t say—he had no attention to spare, he could only think of the breaths of the stranger, his feet as they pushed forward and yielded back just as gracefully, and his arm and chest as they hid practically all of this man’s secrets.

At some point, the man began to press Irminhart, his advantage growing clearer. He began to breathe hard and Irminhart would have been glad for it but he couldn’t think of that, could only try to predict what the man would do next—how he would react to a parry up high or a feint to the left.

They fought longer still, Irminhart’s muscles beginning to protest, his teeth gritted together until a yell came from behind Irminhart and the two of them frozen.

Suddenly, Zephryne’s guards swept into the courtyard. “Stop!” one of them cried and Irminhart turned, his stomach dropping, as a dozen or so of guards of the Temple of Zephryne assembled in front of them.

For a long moment, no one said anything, the guards clearly expecting some note of contrition or apology. Irminhart kept his head up and his eyes focused on the captain of the Goddess’s guards.

Eventually the captain gave in. “Prince Irminhart, you know that fighting on the grounds of the temple is prohibited,” the leader of the guards said, his tone full with disapproval. “Come with us.” Even if Irminhart had wanted to shirk his responsibility, the high priestess of Zephryne would only take the matter to his father. To violate the Goddess’s proscriptions was no small crime. Avoiding her punishment would be an even worse one.

Irminhart set his mouth and strode forward, the guards trailing him. Ortolf and Paschalis followed on both sides. As they stepped through the gates, Irminhart looked back—would the stranger accept his fate as easily as Irminhart accepted his?

But when Irminhart looked back, the man had already nimbly leaped up the sides of the wall and was climbing the walls that rose as tall as two men around the courtyard. At Irminhart’s intake of breath, the guards turned around as well, their eyes going wide.

“Stop him!” the captain yelled and half of the group split off, running through the gate, managing to respectfully avoid Irminhart even in their haste.

“Take him away now,” the guard said, his voice forceful to the guards around Irminhart, Ortolf and Paschalis.

“My prince?” one of the guards said and gestured forward.

Irminhart did not look back as he walked to the main hall of the Temple of Zephryne.

Artur closed his eyes in relief when he made it back to his letted rooms. For not the first time that day, he regretted coming to Rothmar. He began to gather up his few belongings in the room into his woven sack, pulling out a handful of coins to leave for the kind man who had rented him the room.

Just as Artur was done, no more than five or ten minutes, the door to the room burst open and ten men, armored to the gills, swords drawn and gleaming in the sunlight, swarmed in.

Artur carefully laid his sword on the bed and let the men approach. He couldn’t take ten men in such close quarters. And what if he could? He almost certainly wouldn’t make it out of the city. One of the guards wrapped chains around Artur and another groped Artur, pulled out the knife in his pocket and the dagger in his left boot.

Artur began to feel a headache coming on as the guard assigned to him pushed him forward. Six of the men followed, weapons still drawn watching Artur closely as if he might effect another daring escape. The remaining three men stayed behind and as the group walked out into the sunlight, drawing the attention of those passing by, as well as Artur’s former landlord, now looking very distressed as he watched the proceedings, Artur could hear the three men rooting behind in his stuff.

Artur closed his eyes again and let himself be led away.

Irminhart stood in front of his father, kneeling with one knee bent forward, in the throne room. This afternoon, like so many that had come before, had primarily consisted of his father yelling at him in increasingly loud tones about the shame that Irminhart had brought on his family by his desecration of Zephryne’s lands. The high priestess of Zephryne had been otherwise occupied when her guards had brought Irminhart to the great hall, postponing her judgment until later. Which likely meant it would be worse than anticipated—although Irminhart couldn’t say he was too concerned.

“And what if you incur the Goddess’s wrath?” his father asked. “What if you bring the Goddess’s wrath down upon all of us? We could ill-afford to have that occur at any time. But since you have chicken-feed for brains, let me explain that now is a particularly bad time. I am dealing with those undercutting, lying Barthemeians in the south and the new king in Eileifr has yet to indicate if he will ally with us. Amidst all of this, you are picking fights in the streets and attacking our citizens.”

The King took a deep breath and looked up to the heavens.

“You may stand up now, Irminhart,” the King said. When Irminhart rose, the King waited until Irminhart looked at him to continue. “You are suspended from duty until I see fit to reinstate you. Once the high priestess of Zephryne decides what must be done, you will meet with the high priestess to hear her judgment.”

When Irminhart inclined his head in acknowledgment, his father’s face pinched in a flash of anger. “Get out of my sight before I think of a new punishment,” he said.

Rothmar’s prisons were not much to look at—they had thrown Artur into a small cell, walled on three sides and thickly barred on the fourth. His cell was pressed between two other cells, also filled with men and Artur could see cells lining the wall on the opposite side. Two guards sat at the entrance to the cells, their voices carrying to Artur as they laughed or talked. Occasionally he could hear cards being played.

Artur ran through what he knew: he had accepted a match from one of the princes on sacred ground. It seemed unlikely that the prince had intentionally baited him into the fight, but it could not be discounted. Artur tried not to be angry, but as the small window up high on his back wall showed the progressed from day to dusk, dusk to night, night to dawn and few good solutions came to Artur, it grew difficult.

The next morning, the high priestess call Irminhart and the King before her. Dinner had been frosty, unsurprisingly, with Irminhart relegated to one of the tables in the back of the room, but he had thoroughly scandalized his dining companions by refusing to be suitably cowed by what was supposed to be a punishment and, instead, enjoying his meal.

In the hall of Zephryne’s temple, Irminhart stood in front of the high priestess, along with what seemed to be half of the royal court. More than a few had met his eye on their way in, smiling encouragingly, to which Irminhart had winked back in response. Anyone could enter Zephryne’s hall—she commanded this space be open to all supplicants and today it seemed that quite a number of people had taken advantage of her hospitality. Irminhart would have been lying to say that he didn’t enjoy the attention at least a little—even if the circumstances were eye-rollingly annoying.

The high priestess wore the usual regalia—a gold patterned shawl unique to Zephryne around her shoulders and a simple grey pleated robe that stretched to the floor. She could have been twenty-five or sixty-five years old, although Irminhart knew her age was closer to sixty. Her eyes were a filmy white and when she entered, the entire assembled party bowed, including Irminhart’s father and his guards.

“Prince Irminhart,” the priestess started. Her voice was quiet but Irminhart heard it clearly. “You and Artur,” and she nodded behind Irminhart and when Irminhart glanced behind him, his eyes grew wide. There stood the man that Irminhart had challenged. Irminhart hadn’t even heard the guards bring him in—and there were guards, at least five around him, watching him neutrally. Apparently, his trick over the walls hadn’t been enough to make a clean escape.

The farmer—Artur—looked well for someone who had been thrown into the King’s hospitality. As before, he stood stock straight but his shoulders were relaxed—the look of a man who was well-practiced at being watchful and alert.

When their eyes met, anger flared in the man’s eyes, intense for the second that Irminhart caught it, but no other visible sign betrayed the man’s thoughts. Irminhart turned his head back to the priestess.

“You have violated the Goddess’s sacred land. It must be purified. You and Artur will retrieve the Goddess’s shield from the temple in Marz.”

Irminhart’s mouth dropped open in surprise. The Marz forest lay on the other side of the Frena River, almost next to Barthemy, Rothier’s neighbor to the south.

Assuming good travel conditions, it would take at least a week to get to the Goddess’s temple. And then another week back.

“You probably thought that you would make some offerings and attend a service, perhaps serve a few shifts in the Goddess’s guard,” the priestess said and her smile was pleasant enough but her tone held steel and anger and Irminhart stood up straighter. “The Goddess will not be appeased by meaningless action. You have sowed seeds of defilement in her garden and now you must reap the bitter fruits of your planting.”

Irminhart clenched his jaw but nodded at the priestess. “As the Goddess wishes,” he said. Behind him, Artur murmured as well his agreement, the farmer’s mangling of the ritual phrase grating to Irminhart’s ears.

The priestess swept from the room, the assemblage of lower priests following behind her. Only when Irminhart was certain that she was out of the range of hearing did he turn to his father.

“Father, you cannot mean to send me on this meaningless trip. With a man who is capable of killing me, no less,” Irminhart said.

“You mean to go back on your word to the Goddess?” the King said, his voice raising and the whispers along the assembled court stopped short. “Have I trained such a feckless son? You will go to Marz and you will bring back Zephryne’s shield. As for your companion, by all accounts and from what I heard yesterday about your ill-judged match, if he had wanted to kill you, he would have.”

Irminhart’s face burned hot with humiliation and punishment and he clenched his jaw harder as he vowed to himself that he would beat that imbecilic farmer if that was the last thing that he did.

“I will send two members of the guard along with you, should you need protection, but I will also provide an additional inducement to this man not to throttle you in your sleep, despite how much you might deserve it.” The King switched his gaze to Artur. “I am told that you once served in my army.”

The man nodded. “In which division?” the King asked.

“The Fifteenth, under Captain Hartolf. But it was some time ago, your majesty,” Artur said.

“And now you are a farmer,” the King said, no question in the phrase. Irminhart could hear the whispers around him—that Prince Irminhart had been beaten by, of all people, a washed-up soldier who now farmed. Irminhart’s blood began to move with heat.

“Yes, your majesty,” Artur said.

“I will provide enough money for you to purchase additional land for your farms,” the King said. “As well as a bondsman for your lands.”

“Your majesty is very kind,” Artur said and the King looked pleased, although Irminhart could see from the set of the man’s shoulders that at least he was no more pleased about this than Irminhart.

“If you should fail or decide to leave, my men have orders to capture you and I will put a reward on your head so high, it will bring in the Finstarenessian pirates to search for you.”

The King turned back to Irminhart, not interested in any answer that Artur might have had. “You will leave tomorrow,” he said. “You will not fail.” And then he turned, walking through the cavernous great hall, his steps echoing off the white stone of the room.

Someone had stuffed Artur in the servants’ quarters and Irminhart took it upon himself to gather the King’s honored guest early in the morning. The sooner they set off on this Valya-cursed endeavor, the sooner Irminhart would return.

When Irminhart made his way into the quarters, he easily found the room that had been set aside for Artur near the groundsmen’s rooms. Likely Irminhart’s father’s idea of a joke.

It was just after sunrise and the start of the second watch, so Irminhart expected to have to wake the man and pull him out of bed. But when he arrived at Artur’s room and opened the door, he saw that Artur was already out of bed, going through a series of strengthening exercises, his well-defined torso bare. He stopped when he saw Irminhart, his chest rising and falling as a light sheen of sweat covered him.

Irminhart raised an eyebrow at the man. “Good morning. We are planning on leaving shortly.”

“I need to mail a letter back to my home letting them know about my change in plans,” the man said, non-plussed.

Not even an acknowledgment or good morning! “Did you forget all of your manners in the farmlands?” Irminhart said.

Artur didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he inclined his head. “A good morning to you, your majesty,” he said. “Before we can leave, could you direct me to where I could have a letter mailed?”

Irminhart’s face went hot and then cold in anger and he held out his hand. “Just give it to me.” The man rustled through a sack on the floor and produced a sealed letter. “We leave in an hour. Don’t be late.”

The man showed up precisely three quarters of an hour later in the King’s stables. Two men from the King’s Guard had been appointed as additional protection. They were older than Irminhart and he knew them—was friendly with them. They had drunk together upon occasion in a large group, although Irminhart was pressed to remember their names. They had served his father faithfully for over a decade. But, if Irminhart were to measure himself against them, he felt certain that he would come out ahead—when Irminhart had taken oaths, it had been whispered that the palace hadn’t seen a swordsman with as much potential and talent in generations.

Likely, the men would be excellent in a fight. And they would get along with Irminhart. But Irminhart knew, just as the men knew, that their real job was to watch Irminhart—as if he were a child.

Irminhart grinned at them, instead of challenging for his honor, and they grinned back easily enough. “I see our lord farmer has arrived,” Irminhart said loudly and the two men held back laughs. Artur said nothing, just inclined his head at the two men.

Their supplies had already been arranged for and loaded onto their horses, so once Artur stowed his small pack, all four of the men climbed up onto their saddles and then they set off—no fanfare or warm goodbyes behind them.

Rothier was a country of rolling hills, rivers and streams, green everywhere the eye looked. To the west and east, large mountain ranges bordered the country. To the south, dense forests lay between Rothier and Barthemy. To the southwest, at the end of the country, the great Frix and Frena rivers flowed into the Trident and from there into the Sea of Finstarenesso. 

The group followed the People’s Road out of the city. The two guards and Irminhart had worn inconspicuous clothes—generic cloaks and tunics that wouldn’t proclaim their status. Artur wore the same blue-grey jacket and pants. No one paid them any attention, only the guards at the city walls saluting when they saw Irminhart and the rest of his group.

They spent part of the day on the People’s Road, unable to move faster than a brisk walk on their horses due to the crowds going to and from Rothmar. They saw a mix of farmers, merchants and visitors, although everyone carried goods on their way both to and from the city as there was little reason for most people to visit the country’s capital unless it was to trade. One fork of the People’s Road continued all the way to the sea, but it split not far from Rothmar—one fork heading to the mountains that bordered Eileifr, another fork leading to Barthemy and one in between leading to Finstarenesso, along the way stopping along a few of Rothier’s major trading towns.

“Are there always this many people coming to Rothmar?” Artur asked, after they’d been making slow progress for an hour or so. The city of Rothmar still rose up behind them, although it had been getting smaller and smaller along the horizon line.

Irminhart threw Artur a look. “I’ve never seen it particularly quiet on this road,” he said and Artur nodded, as if Irminhart had imparted some deep and relevant information.

At Irminhart’s questioning look, Artur shrugged. “I was a country soldier—my father was a soldier and so I knew that I, too, would be a soldier. But I was trained where I grew up and I served in the country.”

“Ah, so that explains why you have no manners,” Irminhart said. The two guards, who Irminhart had now learned were Dietmar and Tilusch, chuckled.

“But it doesn’t explain _your_ lack of them,” Artur said and Dietmar and Tilusch laughed before they caught themselves. 

“I’ll be sure to ask you for your advice at the next court dinner,” Irminhart said.

Artur gave him another look. “Is that an invitation?”

Irminhart gave Artur his sweetest smile. “All you have to do is ask me nicely.” Artur didn’t have a response for that.

They didn’t speak much for the first few hours. Navigating the crowds required some concentration, but more importantly, Irminhart had no desire to speak with Artur, still angry about what he was being forced to do. But, eventually, Irminhart got bored. It would be no fun to poke at Tilusch or Dietmar, so Irminhart turned his attention towards Artur.

“What kind of crops do you grow?” Irminhart asked Artur.

“In which season?” Artur asked.

“I wish to know about all of your seasons,” Irminhart said, as passionately as he could sound. Dietmar stifled a laugh.

“Depending on the year, I grow barley and beans in the spring and wheat and rye in the fall,” Artur said.

“Is it just you on your farm?” Irminhart asked.

“Up until recently, it was my father and me. Now, it is just myself. I hire hands where needed.”

Irminhart opened his mouth. Artur said, “If the next question is about fertilizer, I can guarantee that you will regret it.” Irminhart opened his mouth again. Artur gave him another look.

“Bulls,” Irminhart started.

Artur groaned and then reluctantly nodded. “What about bulls?”

“Do you breed them with specifically large testicles or is that just a pleasant side effect?” Irminhart asked innocently.

Dietmar almost fell off his horse laughing so hard.

Artur cleared his throat. “We mainly breed for size, historic fertility rates, health.”

“Is that so?” Irminhart said. “Fascinating.” 

A few hours out of Rothmar, they came to the fork in the People’s Road. As soon as they turned towards Barthemy, the crowd broke up and they were able to actually use their horses as the gods had intended. There was no chance to further press at Artur, but Irminhart was in a remarkably good mood when they stopped at a reasonable camping spot for the night and moved sufficiently off the path so that they wouldn’t be seen by any travelers passing by.

Dinner passed uneventfully and they ate around the quickly-constructed fire. As the evening began to settle in and everyone started getting tired, Irminhart cleared his throat. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said.

Dietmar volunteered for second, followed by Tilusch who inclined his head and said that he would take the third. Both of them deliberately didn’t look over at Artur.

After a long second, Artur cleared his throat. “I’ll take fourth.”

“Do you even remember how to hold a watch?” Irminhart asked. “It has been quite a long time for you.”

Dryly, Artur said, “Somehow, I think that I’ll remember.”

Everyone dropped off to sleep relatively quickly and soon it was just Irminhart alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t stop himself from looking over and watching Artur, who was asleep in the bedroll to Irminhart’s right.

In his sleep, he looked younger—still older than Irminhart, maybe by a little under ten years. But he had seemed more Irminhart’s father’s age rather than a near contemporary of Irminhart. If he had been in the army some years before, he must have been in at a very young age. Perhaps joining as young as Irminhart.

Irminhart had trained for the army almost before he could remember anything else. It had been his most fervent desire and the King had been happy to oblige him. His brothers and sisters were more than competent with a sword and understood a great deal of military strategy. But, they would never be soldiers.

Who would give that up to tend crops, Irminhart wondered. Although there was no denying that the man was strong-willed. Perhaps his father had prevailed upon him to return and Artur had obliged out of a familial duty. Perhaps Artur had hated the army—although his deftness with a sword, which could only have come out of a real desire to learn, seemed to counter that.

Irminhart wondered if there was a husband or wife waiting back home for Artur. He wasn’t completely malformed, Irminhart thought. He watched the play of dim firelight spread light and shadow over his face and dark skin. He had full lips, a strong nose and deep-set eyes. Asleep, he was quite attractive.

Irminhart forced his head back to the fire. He closed his eyes to listen to the night—the sounds of the fire crackling and the forest around them settling. After a minute, he stood up and walked to the edge of their camp, peering out into the darkness.

In the morning, Irminhart woke to Artur shaking him awake, his oversized hands gently splayed on Irminhart’s shoulder, surprisingly gentle. Irminhart blinked up a few times at him, vision bleary.

“Keeping your ears on the field and your eyes on the farm?” Irminhart asked.

Artur frowned. “Breakfast is ready.”

Breakfast was the usual early-trip rations: fresh bread, cheese and fruit. Irminhart rolled up his bedding and readied his horse. Artur’s horse was already readied.

“How did you become such a good sword fighter?” Irminhart asked Artur as they waited for Dietmar and Tilusch to finish their own breakfasts.

“Practice, mainly,” Artur said.

“Is that so?” Irminhart said. “And here I thought that Crethuz himself had descended from the mountains to gift you with such skill.”

“Why does it matter?” Artur asked. “Does it change the nature of my ability?”

“Oh, I don’t really care,” Irminhart said casually. “It’s just that Dietmar and Tilusch have been hounding me about it. I wouldn’t want to let them down.”

They both looked over at Dietmar and Tilusch, both of whom sat silently as they ate, their eyes blinking with grittiness.

Artur almost smiled at that one, but caught himself and busied himself with his saddle’s buckles and bindings.

They rode for a few hours and then stopped for lunch—the road was almost entirely empty by this point. Not many people traveled between Barthemy and Rothier. There were always bandits to be concerned about, but the horses were a strong deterrent and none of the four men looked like they would have much to offer an opportunistic group passing by.

They stopped for lunch in a small town with a village inn in the center of the town that served a meat pie and hearty servings of beans. No one gave them a second look and the proprietress of the inn seated them in the back. There were only a few other visitors eating their own meals.

“Is it normally this quiet?” Artur asked the assembled group and his voice was oddly loud in the room. Dietmar and Tilusch looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Do you live on a farm or, instead, under a rock?” Irminhart said quietly. “Barthemy has been all but threatening war for the past half-year. Anyone with half a head would avoid the People’s Road to Barthemy.”

Artur nodded once. “I didn’t realize it was so bad,” he said.

“Well, now you see,” Irminhart said. “And you also see why my absence from Rothmar at a time like this isn’t ideal.”

“In all fairness, you suggested the grounds for the match,” Artur said. Irminhart glared at him.

“I expected to beat you quickly enough that we would have been out of the temple grounds before anyone had even known we were there,” Irminhart said. “But, I got double bad luck—you are a much better swordsman than I anticipated and the temple guard happened to be going by. I think that the moral of this is that next time I should just fight in public, prohibition on fighting be damned.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go around bullying people,” Artur said. “Perhaps that’s the significance of this story.” 

“Maybe you should apologize when you run into someone and break their items,” Irminhart said.

“Maybe—” Artur started but was cut off by Dietmar raising his head.

“Maybe we should all just eat our lunch,” he said and Irminhart turned back to his meal, fuming.

Irminhart rode slightly ahead of the group in the afternoon, not especially desirous of anyone’s company. He couldn’t avoid his own, but he could get away from Artur, Dietmar and Tilusch.

Occasionally, he made out the sounds of Dietmar and Tilusch talking, Artur occasionally answering. Irminhart focused instead on the rolling hills around him and the thickening of the forest. The trees had already begun to crowd each other, growing tall along the sides of the road, but he saw clearings now and then through their gaps.

When they made it to the temple, the trees would be so close as to almost be growing on top of each other, in some places growing together, with trunks large enough that five men would need to hold hands to measure all around it.

Irminhart couldn’t help but replay the events that had led him here—each time that he mentally went through the fight, he couldn’t see the openings that would let him gain the advantage. And it infuriated him!

They stopped to give the horses a break around mid-afternoon, eating a snack while the horses drank from a river that ran near the road.

“Perhaps we could have a rematch?” Irminhart said, the words coming out before he could stop himself. 

“No,” Artur said. He focused on his food. Irminhart should have been pleased by that, but instead, it made him want to dig his heels in harder.

“I think that it would be good for both of us,” Irminhart said.

“Excellent attempt,” Artur said. “But still no.”

“I will give you all the money in my coin purse if you spar with me,” Irminhart said. Dietmar looked up and stared at Irminhart. He probably knew how much Irminhart had in his purse.

“No,” Artur said.

“You don’t even know how much money that I have in my purse,” Irminhart pointed out in what he felt like was a very reasonable manner. He probably had enough that Artur could pay for supplies for his farm for half a year. Maybe a full year if Artur was especially frugal. He seemed like the type to be.

“Why do you want to spar so badly with me?” Artur asked. He looked up, genuinely curious.

“Why don’t you want to spar with me?” Irminhart asked.

“Don’t change the question.”

“Did you say that your talent came from practicing? A man of your advanced years needs as much practice as you can get. And where else are you going to find a swordsman as good as me to practice with?”

Artur sighed, but didn’t dispute the point. At Irminhart’s pointed staring, he looked up to the skies and then shook his head. “Fine,” he said.

They sparred that night after the group stopped for the evening, while Tilusch’s caught rabbit cooked over the fire.

Now that Irminhart was calmer, he saw that himself and Artur were almost evenly matched, Artur just barely having the upper hand. But Irminhart worked hard to make sure that Artur worked hard as well—watching Artur’s every move, seeing how he reacted to each parry and feint.

When they finally stopped to eat, both were sweating and out of breath. Irminhart had spotted a small stream nearby and he slipped down before he ate to wash up, the coldness waking him up and jump-starting his appetite.

“You’re not bad,” Artur said when Irminhart returned.

“I’m better than not bad,” Irminhart said.

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you that humility is attractive,” Dietmar said with a laugh.

“Attractiveness has never been an area in which I’ve been lacking,” Irminhart said, winking at him. Dietmar laughed harder at that but when Irminhart over at Artur, Artur frowned and then looked away.

That night, Irminhart took the second shift, closing his eyes for a few hours until Artur woke him up—a looming presence shaking him. The men from his dream stood there as well, the bag ready to pull over Irminhart’s face, his ribs aching from where they’d hit him when he’d tried to run away.

He needed to stop them—get away from them—get back to his parents. Without even thinking for it, Irminhart reached for his sword, his body reacting on instinct, but Artur’s hand was there, pushing hard against Irminhart’s, and preventing him from withdrawing it from the sheath.

“You are having a bad dream,” Artur said urgently as Irminhart kept pushing, until Artur grabbed his other hand and then pulled Irminhart close, keeping him from getting to the weapon.

Irminhart’s whole body was clenched tight with tension and he fought against Artur for a moment, desperate to get away, but Artur was an unmovable rock, murmuring low against his ear.

“It is a nightmare,” Artur said and eventually the figures slipped away, leaving only Artur there, clutching him. Irminhart sagged with relief.

“Are you yourself again?” Artur asked, pulling back to look at him. Irminhart nodded and Artur let him go.

Irminhart pulled himself out of his bedding entirely and stood up, walking the perimeter of their little camp and working out some of the remaining fear left in him.

Artur came up to him after a while, clearly telegraphing his approach, holding a steaming cup of tea. When he offered it to Irminhart, Irminhart gladly took it, embarrassed to find his hands still marginally shaking. He turned back to the black of the forest.

“Your memories are not from battle,” Artur said slowly beside him.

“They are not,” Irminhart agreed.

“But they are memories,” Artur said. Irminhart didn’t respond.

Eventually, it was too cold to stay out far from the fire and so, by mutual agreement, they went back and sat around it. Artur stayed up for Irminhart’s shift, even though there was no need for him to do so, which Irminhart repeated several times. Functioning on the loss of several more hours of sleep could only be detrimental, but Artur stood surprisingly firm and Irminhart didn’t have the energy to insist.

In the morning, Irminhart woke, gritty-eyed, and feeling like he’d gone for a week of mountain training. Artur looked as implacable as ever and Irminhart glared at him over the cooked oatmeal breakfast.

The next two days were much of the same—forested hills and a few settlements, here and there, and one or two towns, where they stopped to buy food supplies before setting off again. Sparring at night with Artur, who every night proclaimed to not understand Irminhart’s need to match with him. Irminhart had stopped responding, just preparing himself for the match each time. It turned out that Artur was unable to resist a challenge—or maybe the fact that it was Irminhart made the challenge irresistible.

On the sixth day, the forest surrounded them grew so high as to block out much of the sunlight—only a shimmer of it came through unadulterated in a straight line above the path. They rode on what was little more than a cart road, after having turned off the main road to Barthemy onto one that led up into the hills through the Marz forest.

The horses didn’t seem to mind the lack of sunlight as much as Irminhart did. They rode well, keeping at a solid pace. They stopped for a quick lunch to let the horses rest, eating dried meats and fruits. There was no use complaining about the food—they had what they had—but Irminhart would have paid considerably good money for freshly baked bread or well-seasoned meat. 

And then, finally, just as the sun began setting to their side, so far as Irminhart could tell, Irminhart caught side of a walled temple at the end of the road. The brightly colored walls were painted in alternating reds and blacks and rose up to the height of ten men.

The small gate at the front of the temple opened as they approached and a tall woman, her hair completely white and her dark face creased with wrinkles walked out, flanked by two temple guards.

“Well met, travelers,” she said, once everyone had dismounted.

“Well met, Priestess,” the four of them intoned.

“Zephryne told me of your coming, but she neglected to mention just how handsome you all were,” the priestess said, smiling at them.

Irminhart smiled back and bowed, as courtly as he had been trained. “If I had known that such a beautiful treasure awaited us, I would have traveled even faster,” Irminhart said and the priestess laughed with delight.

“Come inside, please,” the priestess said and gestured for the group to follow her. Irminhart went first, the rest of the men following, last of which were the temple guards, their faces stern. “I am Lihilde,” she said. “One of Zephryne’s appointed here. She told us of your arrival.” At Irminhart’s questioning eyebrow, she nodded. “And also, of why you come.”

“The Goddess is good,” Irminhart said, the words coming automatically. Lihilde nodded.

“You will attend our evening service and then we will have dinner. In the morning, we will give you her shield to take to our sister temple.” She cast an amused look at them. “And if you are nice, perhaps we will even give you some additional supplies to take back.”

Dietmar and Tilusch looked happy at that. Irminhart smiled extra-widely at Lihilde. “In the presence of such a lovely host, how could we be anything but nice?” he asked.

Lihilde laughed again at that. “Oh, you are dangerous, my prince.”

When Irminhart looked over at Artur, he was frowning, so Irminhart gave Artur a sunny smile as well, enjoying the look of confusion that passed over Artur’s face before he wiped his face clean from emotion. 

“Blessed is the Goddess, for she protects our land and watches over us,” Lihilde spoke at the service from the raised altar. Behind her were Zephryne’s sacred relics—her sword, her shield and an everfresh bouquet of Zephryne’s amaryllis, white and red flowers that were always in bloom at her temples.

“Blessed is Zephryne,” the rest of the order and Irminhart said. Artur stood next to Irminhart, his eyes fixed ahead and his back exceedingly straight. If he were a horse, his eyes would have shown their white. Dietmar and Tilusch looked mildly interested—it had probably been years since they had attended any of the patron Goddess of Rothier’s services. On the high holidays, they would have left her gifts or make donations in her name, but few outside of Zephryne’s faithful would attend her services more than a few times over their lifetime.

“Blessed is the Goddess, for she gives strength to all who seek her,” Lihilde said.

“Blessed is Zephryne,” Irminhart said. Artur said nothing.

Irminhart found himself exhausted after dinner and looking forward to sleeping in a bed, no matter how small it was. Even better, the temple was large enough to have separate rooms for each of their guests. A younger devotee, her hair shorn and marking her as a newcomer to the order, showed Irminhart to her room. Irminhart thanked her and then closed the door behind her, eager to change into night clothes and rest.

For the first couple of minutes, the room felt too quiet—no sounds coming through the temple walls. Even the occasional sounds of the castle were muffled and it felt odd—no fire nearby, no whistling of the wind through the trees. And it felt oddly vulnerable without the three other men nearby to protect him.

But even the difference in setting could keep Irminhart up for so long. Exhaustion overtook Irminhart and he fell asleep before he deliberate on such feelings for much longer.

In the morning, they ate breakfast in silence, and then followed Lihilde to the great hall. A devotee in grey handed Lihilde the carefully wrapped shield who then presented it to Irminhart. Just as gently, Irminhart placed it in the bag that he would wear over his back. If anything were to happen, Irminhart would be able to protect it with his life.

“This is an honor for you, Prince Irminhart,” Lihilde said. Irminhart inclined his head. “I know that the Goddess’s trust in you will be well-justified.”

Irminhart had no response for that.

Lihilde and a cohort of devotees walked the four men to the gate of the temple, which was staffed by a half-dozen soldiers, their temple breastplates and swords gleaming in the early sun.

“May the Goddess protect you,” Lihilde said to Irminhart.

“And you,” Irminhart said and he bowed, Artur, Dietmar and Tilusch following suite.

It was a relief to, at last, be headed back to Rothmar, their stupid quest completed and only a return trip standing between Irminhart and normalcy.

But something felt odd about the morning—maybe the trees pressing in, maybe the heaviness from the mist rolling through the forest or maybe nothing at all. Regardless, Irminhart had difficulty shaking the mood. Everyone else seemed similarly affected—Tilusch and Dietmar stayed quiet. And Artur kept looking over at Irminhart, his attention fixed on Irminhart in a way that made Irminhart feel almost itchy.

What was he looking for, Irminhart wondered. But Irminhart hesitated to ask him—something stopping him each time he thought of a witty remark to toss to Artur that he could expect Artur to bat back.

A few hours later, they had to slow down as they made their way through some morning fog, In Rothmar, it would have burned off by now, but out here where the forest was so thick and it was colder, they weren’t nearly as lucky. As the four fell into a closer group, Irminhart felt Artur’s gaze on him again. “What are you staring at me for?”

Artur tilted his head. “Zephryne,” he said and Irminhart turned away, not wanting to discuss it.

“Forget it,” he said.

“So, you’re allowed to ask about my life and I can’t return the favor,” Artur said. Irminhart didn’t say anything. “I couldn’t help but notice,” he started, “that you’re very familiar with the Goddess’s services.”

Irminhart shrugged.

Artur made a questioning sound, but Irminhart ignored him. Eventually Artur said, “You seem to be very good at spiting both of your parents.”

“I’ve had to stand out from my brothers and sister somehow,” Irminhart said, his voice light. Artur gave him a long look and Irminhart tried to laugh and brush off the concern.

There was a rustling sound in the forest—it was too loud to be a casual passing animal and there was more than one thing making the sound. Irminhart threw up a hand and Artur immediately went silent. Dietmar and Tilusch reached for their swords. Suddenly, an arrow flew through the air. “Ambush,” Dietmar called and then everything happened at once: a small hail of arrows falling through, missing wildly, likely due to the fog.

“There are at least two in the trees,” Artur called as they all pushed their horses to gallop. Irminhart’s horse went wild, eyes moving frantically and Irminhart knew that there would be men up ahead.

“There are more up ahead, on ground, I think,” he called urgently.

“We need to keep riding,” Artur said. “We can’t risk stopping.”

“They will cut the horses out from underneath us,” Irminhart said.

“My prince,” Dietmar said. “Tilusch and I will attack.” What he meant was that he and Tilusch would provide cover while Irminhart and Artur escaped.

“No,” Irminhart said. And then, there they were, half a dozen men appearing out of the forest ahead of them as the fog gave way to better visibility. Already, Dietmar and Tilusch had their bows out, riding and shooting as they moved. Irminhart drew his sword, Artur having done the same.

It came all at once, or maybe it happened slowly, Irminhart couldn’t have recalled afterwards. He’d never fought in real battles—small skirmishes with Barthemeian bandits along the border or pirate raiders that had come to their shores. Irminhart had always been on the side of advantage—the larger force, the better equipment and superior weaponry.

That was not the case now.

These men were well-trained. They went for the horses first and so Irminhart and Artur immediately leapt from their horses, swords already swinging. Once the men were off, the horses were no longer a target and they immediately bolted, leaving Artur and Irminhart stranded as they tried to protect Dietmar and Tilusch behind them.

On the left, Irminhart focused on the men near him, trusting Dietmar and Tilusch to make inroads and Artur to protect his right.

Two men came at him at once and Irminhart moved on instinct, his sword coming up and quickly slashing across, moving down, and cutting underneath, rising up to meet the second swordsman’s attack. Irminhart kept moving, dodging and ducking between the two men around him before he managed a full attack on the second swordsman. He swept to the left and then turned hard, decapitating him and then turned his attention to the remaining man.

With only one, it was quick work, although he was panting when he finished.

“Prince!” came Artur’s wild yell and Irminhart turned back to Artur in time to see another swordsman racing towards him, who’d likely just disengaged where Artur still fought off the two other swordsmen, one dead on the floor near him.

Irminhart tried to move his arm and noticed with some small amount of surprise that it wasn’t quite obeying him, each flex feeling like a lightning strike of pain. He looked down to see that there was an arrow sticking out of his upper right bicep and blood soaking through his shirt on his arm as well as on his lower left torso. He grunted and rose his arm, succeeding just in time to block the new entrant’s sword, but the pure force of it brought back another screech of pain, knocking Irminhart back.

Irminhart stumbled over a body, bringing up his sword to block again and again, but his arm kept fading and would almost certainly be useless in just a few moments. He frantically looked around for anything that he could use as protection, but even as he moved back, he saw the sightless eyes of Tilusch, throat slashed.

A sheet of certainty and fear flowed through him. He would die here. He would die in the middle of the forest, with nothing to show for his life or himself. He would die now and here and there was nothing he could to do to stop it.

The swordsman kept advancing and Irminhart fell back as he scrambled out of the way, landing painfully on the ground. With a kind of benevolent smile, the swordsman lifted up his sword, reading himself for the killing stroke and then he stopped short. His face drew up in confusion and Irminhart tried to pull himself farther away.

The man suddenly slumped to the side, his arms scrabbling at his chest, and then Irminhart saw a small dagger stuck in the man’s back, neatly going through his ribs likely to the man’s lungs. It must have come from Artur. Artur who was still fighting against two men, but was almost certainly going to win.

With a strength that felt almost impossible, Irminhart pushed himself up with his good arm and did his best to stand up. With that accomplished, he began moving towards Artur, deeming the man close at hand a non-threat. One of the swordsmen turned to Irminhart, attention caught. That was enough for Artur and the man clutched at his stomach as he fell.

The last men fell almost just as quickly, now that Artur could turn his full attention to him.

“Dietmar?” Irminhart asked. Artur shook his head. For a long time, neither of them moved, both panting as they tried to come to grips with what had just occurred.

“You saved my life,” Irminhart said eventually, once he trusted himself to speak. “I owe you my life.”

“No,” Artur said.

“No,” Irminhart said. “You saved my life. You could have let me die. No one would have blamed you, least of all myself. But you saved me. You gave me warning, you killed the man about to kill me. I owe you my life.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Artur said. “And then, let’s see if we can find our horses and get off of this road. We don’t know if more men are coming.”

“Wait,” Irminhart said. “I need to tell you something. I owe you my life.”

“You already said that. And you don’t,” Artur said vehemently, coming over and wrapping an arm around Irminhart to help him sit down. He pulled up Irminhart’s shirt first, examining the cut on Irminhart’s stomach. “Not too deep. It will bleed some, but it shouldn’t require stitches.”

“I’m sorry for the way that I’ve treated you,” Irminhart said.

“You’re not going to die,” Artur said.

“Everyone dies someday,” Irminhart said. “Even if I don’t die today, I’ll still be sorry.”

“I accept your apology, but can we now focus on this,” Artur said, looking at the arrow sticking out of Irminhart’s arm. “I think that we’ll have to pull it out now.”

“I swear an oath of allegiance and debt to you,” Irminhart said.

Artur stopped immediately, his eyes flying up from Irminhart’s arm to his face. “Prince Irminhart, that is not necessary.”

“I owe you my life,” Irminhart said quietly. “My duty is now to you.”

Artur shook his head. “I’m asking you not to do this. Your duty is to your father and your kingdom. Not to me. I do not want your oath—”

“I swear it here, as Zephryne as my witness, that I will be loyal to you until I die. If you need help tilling your farms, I will till them. If you are attacked, I will defend you. _I owe you my life_.”

Artur closed his eyes with something like pain. The words were said and Irminhart would not take them back. Eventually Artur stood. Irminhart half-feared that Artur was going to just walk away and leave him but then Artur returned with a small pouch that he opened to reveal bound cloth and a small sealed jar.

“This will hurt,” Artur said and then he cleaned his small dagger, opening the small jar to reveal honey, which he dipped the dagger into before wiping clean again. Irminhart gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, not wanting to see Artur cutting open the wound.

It was beyond any pain that Irminhart had ever experience, the knife sinking through his skin, the shocks of it spreading across Irminhart’s body. Once the wound was large enough, Artur carefully grasped the head of the arrow.

Irminhart kept counting to ten, praying to Crethuz for mercy, to Zephryne for strength, as Artur pulled the arrowhead out and Irminhart’s body seized up in his attempt to keep still.

“Good,” Artur said, his voice soothing in Irminhart’s ear. “You’re doing good. I’m going to clean it out and then bandage it. You’re almost done.”

“Just—just get it over with,” Irminhart said. Artur had managed to find—probably from one of the attacker’s bag—a small jug of foul-smelling jenever. He poured it into the wound and Irminhart could not stop himself from lashing out at that, but Artur seemed to have anticipated it, his hand carefully placed on Irminhart’s shoulder to prevent Irminhart from moving too much.

“That was the last of it,” he said. “I’m going to bind it now.” Artur spread no small amount of honey over the wound and then bandaged it with the clean linen from Artur’s bag.

Irminhart tried to stand up, but Artur pushed him back down. “Now your shirt,” he said and at Irminhart’s look, he reached down to pull up Irminhart’s shirt and undershirt, exposing his stomach and the cut slowly bleeding from the side.

Artur gently cleaned that as well, proclaiming it small enough to not need stitches, and then bandaged it up. Then he finally allowed Irminhart to stand up. Once he did, Irminhart saw the full extent of the damage.

Dietmar lay far back, off the path and partway into the forest where he’d likely headed to get the archer, and he’d been stabbed through the stomach and shot in the back, his bow beside him. His sword lay embedded in a man next to him. Tilusch was closer and Irminhart closed his eyes in shame and sadness.

Their enemies lay scattered around—eight men all dead. “These men were well-trained,” Irminhart said slowly.

Artur frowned and knelt down by one of the men, rummaging about him until he found a small sack which he started going through.

Irminhart watched him, his body still shivering with aftershocks of pain, his arm throbbing fiercely and wishing that he could finish the rest of the jenever. Suddenly, a horrible thought came to him. He went over to Artur’s man and with great effort and much swearing lowered himself to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Artur asked.

Irminhart flipped up the cartilage of the man’s ear and sucked in a breath as Artur did the same. At the base of the ear, a scarred design of stars lay.

“Barthemeian,” Artur said and looked to Irminhart for confirmation. Irminhart nodded. “Raiders or scouting party?”

Irminhart shook his head and Artur stood up quickly. “We need to start moving, immediately,” he said. “They may have had an archer who escaped—I don’t know if there was one or two.”

“They could be coming back with reinforcements,” Irminhart said. “To finish their work. I pray to the gods that I’m wrong, but if we’re near a staging ground for an—for an attack on Rothier…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Artur gripped Irminhart’s good arm. “Let’s go.”

Tilusch’s horse had managed to escape the carnage for some gods-given reason and both Artur and Irminhart were immensely relieved to find him scared but unharmed in the woods nearby. Neither had said anything, but their chances of outrunning a group of Barthemeians were sufficiently low without having to factor in no horses.

Irminhart quickly cleaned his sword and then took Dietmar’s bow and the few remaining unbroken arrows, while Artur took his sword, their packs with supplies and loaded them onto Tilusch’s horse.

“My prince?” Artur said, gesturing at the horse. Irminhart felt a swell of stubbornness and shook his head at Artur’s request.

“I can get on without help,” Irminhart said.

Artur cocked his head at him. “You have a deep arrow wound on your dominant arm and a sufficiently bad cut on your stomach,” he said. “Prudence suggests I help you in order to not aggravate either of those.”

Irminhart sputtered. “Zephryne knows that if I can’t get onto a horse by myself, I might as well be dead.”

“Is that what I should tell the King when I return without you?” Artur asked. “Because if you’re going to refuse all help—all help from someone that you just swore to follow—I will just leave you here.”

Irminhart cursed Artur under his breath. He didn’t believe for one second that Artur would actually leave him in the middle of the Marz forest, but Artur could make the rest of the journey sufficiently painful. He allowed Artur to help prop him atop of the horse. Even with assistance, every time his arm moved, a swell of pain roiled through him, making Irminhart tense up as a new wave of sweat sprung out over his body. Artur, keeping a close eye on Irminhart’s position, pushed himself up in front of Irminhart.

Using his good arm, Irminhart gripped Artur’s stomach and pressed himself close. Artur smelled like sweat, leather and fresh pine and was a firm, sturdy pillar to lean against. Irminhart was absurdly comforted by it and let himself breath in the scent of Artur as he oriented himself.

“This…may hurt,” Artur said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be fine,” Irminhart said and then they began to move.

It did hurt, more than Irminhart had remembered that it could hurt to ride with an injury. Every movement jarred Irminhart’s arm, the wound feeling like it was being reopened on each step that their horse took. At some point, the trees started to blur together into a large green and brown mess that made Irminhart feel dizzy, so he closed his eyes and leaned in closer to Artur.

A small eternity later, Artur slowed down and Irminhart opened his eyes and sat up. Artur had made good time and they were just about to the People’s Road extending between Rothmar and Barthemy. “There’s another route that we should take,” he said or tried to. His throat felt rusty and thick and it took a few tries to force the words out.

Artur slowed the horse down until they were moving at a trot. “Where is this route and where does it go to?”

The route drifted before Irminhart, narrow and bumpy, rising between forest and heading towards the mountains. “It’s an eastern turn-off a little bit down the People’s Road. It’s not much of anything, most of it is an old riverbed from before they diverted an off-shoot of the Frena, decades ago. Only marked on military maps, generally.”

“Does it go up into the mountains?” Artur asked. Irminhart shook his head and even the motion made everything swim for a second, streaks of light echoing on the edges of his vision.

“It meets with the Frena before the mountains. And then it’s a straight path from there to Rothmar.”

Artur turned to look at Irminhart and what he saw made him clench his jaw. “We need to get onto this road and as far as we can today before it’s too dark to go any farther.”

Irminhart blinked up at the sky—the forest was still too crowded to really make much of it, but the sun now appeared much closer to setting than it did to rising. How much time had they been travelling for? Tilusch’s horse was unlikely to survive if they rode it too hard.

“Can’t farmers see in the dark?” he asked.

Artur gave a low, surprised laugh at that. “Only those blessed enough to be Zephryne’s companion.”

Irminhart didn’t have enough energy to make a joke at that and closed his eyes against a jolt of pain as he tried to right himself. Artur stood stock still while Irminhart moved.

“It will be soon,” Artur said. “Just a little bit further.” Irminhart nodded and then they began to move again.

They didn’t have to ride for too long along the main road—eventually Irminhart spotted the disused turnoff. Grass grew over the path, making it look more like a simple clearing that Irminhart had directed Artur through.

“Keep riding through the trees,” Irminhart said and girded himself for the close branches that they would have to make their way through.

Artur didn’t even ask him if he was sure, for which Irminhart was profoundly grateful. Eventually the path, if it could be called that, began to slope downward, and the trees began to spread out every so slightly, eliminating some of the branches that had painfully hit Irminhart’s arm.

Finally, they came through the trees and Artur carefully directed their horse to the dry silt bed that lay in front of them.

“Well done, Prince Irminhart,” Artur said and, for once, there was a hint of admiration in his voice.

Movement now was easier and they were able to make their way for a few more hours, with breaks for the horse, before the sun began to set. Artur helped Irminhart off of the horse and they moved out of the riverbed and into the woods, finding a small clearing. Once they had settled on the place, Irminhart let himself rush to the ground, every part of his body feeling weak beyond imagination.

“Prince Irminhart!” Artur said and rushed over.

Irminhart waved a shaky hand. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice weaker than he would have liked. Artur didn’t listen to him and helped prop him up against a tree trunk. Artur checked both of his wounds and then, when satisfied that they weren’t worse, went to unpack and feed their horse.

Irminhart closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, Artur had a small bowl of cooked oats in front of him. Irminhart shook his head—the last thing that he wanted was to eat. He wanted to go to sleep and not move for a week.

“Just think, once you get back to the palace, you can probably lay in bed for half a month, being waited on hand and foot,” Artur said, as if he knew what Irminhart was thinking of.

“Since we’re about to go to war, most likely, I imagine that won’t be the case. But wouldn’t that be nice,” Irminhart said wistfully, envisioning somebody waiting on his every whim. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with you for now.”

“A poor palace maid I would be. Come, eat a little bit.” Artur said and then gave Irminhart a small, hopeful smile. It lit his face up and Irminhart could see that there was a small slashed scar at the corner of his mouth. Irminhart’s heart gave a wild beat.

“Where did that come from?” Irminhart asked.

“The oats?” Artur said.

“No,” Irminhart said and then reached up to tap against Artur’s mouth. Artur went still at the touch. “This.”

After a moment, Artur cleared his throat. “Boys measuring themselves against each other. I was the unlucky beneficiary of a misjudged thrust.” Irminhart nodded and Artur looked back at Irminhart’s arm. “It isn’t half as fine of a scar as you’ll have on your arm.”

“It will be very impressive,” Irminhart agreed. “Not that I need help in that arena.”

“I imagine that you don’t,” Artur said dryly and whatever odd mood had settled up on them broke. “But you won’t live to see it if you don’t eat something and nourish your body.”

“Yes, taskmaster,” Irminhart said but took the spoon from Artur and dipped it into the bowl that Artur held.

After eating, Irminhart fell asleep. He vaguely woke up to Artur carefully arranging him on his bedroll. “Did you put something in the oatmeal?” he asked accusingly. Artur shrugged. Irminhart glared for a moment longer and then sighed. “You are testing my oath early, I see.”

Artur went still. “Prince, I will not hold you to that oath.”

“I have pledged myself—I will follow you and your direction. My life is yours,” Irminhart said. “I’m not an oathbreaker.”

Artur made a sound of frustration, but Irminhart didn’t yield under his gaze. “Go to sleep,” he said eventually and Irminhart did.

Irminhart woke in the morning feeling somehow even more in pain than he had the day before, but at least his mind was somewhat clearer. He clumsily pushed himself out of his bedroll with his good hand. It took a while.

Artur watched from over near their small fire where he was stirring a small pot that looked to be filled with oats and water. When he saw that Irminhart had seated himself nearby, he put some into Irminhart’s bowl. He opened a small pouch next to him and pulled out a small vial of herbs.

“I won’t take those,” Irminhart said. “I won’t be able to ride well if I am drugged.”

“What happened to the loyalty you protested so fervently last night?” Artur said.

“Loyalty is not the same as obedience,” Irminhart said smugly. “That I have not pledged.”

“Of course, you would refuse the one thing that I do want,” Artur said. Irminhart refused to give in. “Fine, I won’t doctor your oats, but don’t blame me for what you feel on our ride today.”

Despite Artur’s words, he made sure to check Irminhart’s wounds, cleaning them out with water and then spreading more honey over them and rebandaging Irminhart’s stomach and arm. His hands were warm and firm and they felt so good as they checked Irminhart over. Absurdly, Irminhart wanted Artur to continue his investigation.

But they didn’t have time to waste and soon enough, Artur helped Irminhart up onto the horse as carefully as possible and they set off.

That day felt interminably longer than the previous day, likely because Irminhart wasn’t conveniently passing in and out of consciousness. The forest was much sparser here and they could occasionally see extensive tracts of farmland in the distance.

There was no evidence that anyone was following them, so Artur allowed them more breaks, to make sure that their horse stayed healthy. Irminhart mentally promised that if they made it back to Rothier in one piece, he would make sure that their horse spent the rest of his life blissfully grazing in the finest field that he could find. They just needed to make it back.

When they stopped for the evening, the sky almost completely black, Irminhart’s legs were so stiff that he had to be helped down from the horse. But he was sufficiently awake enough to help set up the camp, incrementally at least. He helped to unpack the bedrolls and collect wood for the fire, moving at barely above a snail’s pace, although Artur didn’t seem perturbed by how slowly Irminhart made progress.

Dinner wasn’t much more than oats, again, this time with some dried fruit and then dried meat. As they sat around eating, Irminhart realized that he was truly alone with Artur. “You could kill me and leave and no one would ever know,” he observed.

Artur flinched as if he’d been hit. “I would never do that,” he said and started gearing up into something that Irminhart was sure he would be bored to tears by.

“No, of course, I know that,” Irminhart said dismissively. “I just mean you could—no one could stop you. But you’re very honorable.”

“I—” Artur stumbled over the words, “I don’t know about that.”

“You saved the life of someone who put your life on danger by forcing you to be on this gods-cursed trip. You could have taken your horse and tried to run, but you tried to defend all of us.” Irminhart wasn’t sure what point he was trying to make—but he felt like he had to say something to Artur, something to express just how meaningful his actions were.

Artur looked away. Irminhart changed tact. “Why did you leave the army?” he asked.

Artur sighed. “I always wanted to be in the army and I joined it as soon as my father would let me—although he trained me for years. He was also a very good fighter and he insisted that I be the best that I possibly could be. He was always very hard on me. I hated it growing up. But I know now that’s because it’s what I needed. After all, we are forged in the heart of the fire.

“I rose up through the army, but there came a point when my father insisted that I come help him. That I prepare to take on his responsibilities for our land. My father is as strong-willed as your father. Maybe more strong-willed. There was no refusal for me.”

“Well, in that, we are similar,” Irminhart said. “Although I have done my best to refuse my father as often as I am able.”

“Has it always been like that?” Artur asked.

Irminhart shrugged, but Artur had been honest with him. “He used to be very affectionate with me when I was younger. But when I was small, about seven, I was kidnapped and held for ransom when we visited Eker near the sea. He paid the ransom and I was returned, ultimately...” Irminhart made an ambivalent hand gesture. 

“I didn’t know,” Artur said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Irminhart said. “It’s all in the past. Besides, it’s better for me that he’s not focused on me anyways. My older sister and brothers made sure that I was well-trained. Although that you can be sure that I’m the best fighter out of all of us. My oldest sister and brother can fight, but my sister is my father’s heir and my eldest brother would prefer to be in a library or meeting of ministers. My next eldest brother is a terrible fighter, but he’s very smart and diplomatic. He’s married to the princess-heir of Borgon. The brother who is closest to me in age, just a year older than me, was in the army for some time, but retired. He helps with this and that.

“At some point, when you have that many brothers and sisters, you need to work to stand out from the rest of them,” Irminhart said. He’d worked to differentiate himself from them and succeeded.

“You do have a lot of siblings,” Artur said.

“One might call them a surplus of siblings,” Irminhart said. “I have told them so many times.” 

“I always wanted to have siblings,” Artur said. “I was born to my father’s sister, who died in childbirth. My father had previously been married and his husband had died quite young. My father refused to remarry.”

“I’m so sorry,” Irminhart said.

“It’s alright,” Artur said. “It happened before I was born.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Irminhart unsure of what to say. “It sounds painful but very romantic,” he said instead of the very thoughtful and poetic condolence he had been trying to think of. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean for that to come out.”

Artur did laugh at that. “I always thought it was pretty romantic too.” Their eyes met for a second and, involuntarily, Irminhart’s eyes dropped down to Artur’s lips, full and slightly chapped. He thought of what it would be like to kiss Artur, bite his way down Artur’s thickly defined chest, worry the tendons at the curve of Artur’s neck.

Irminhart had spent two days pressed against Artur, feeling just how strong he was—how much power lay coiled in his muscles. He could probably screw Irminhart into the ground without even really exerting himself—although if he was exerting himself, Irminhart could imagine the two of them wrestling and Artur getting the upper hand, completely and totally pinning him to the ground in triumph, his weight deliciously heavy. If they were back at home, Irminhart would sidle up to him in a tavern and buy his next drink, be his most winsome self and bring Artur back to Irminhart’s bed.

The moment extended and Irminhart recklessly let himself want Artur. Irminhart _wanted_ and the strength of that desire was a shock, the heat that spread fast down Irminhart’s body, pounding in his groin. Irminhart felt caught between his desires and what he knew he should do. Painfully, Irminhart forced himself away from those thoughts. 

“Well, with the gold that you’ll get when we return to the capital, you’ll be able to find someone to love you in spite of all your physical deficiencies,” Irminhart said, perhaps a touch too quickly.

Artur stared at Irminhart for a moment too long and Irminhart half-thought Artur might do something crazy like reach out and touch him, but instead, Artur gave an awkward laugh. Irminhart jumped onto that and started ribbing Artur about his non-existent flaws, which Artur gracefully bore.

Irminhart forced himself to push aside the strange feeling from earlier. He’d been reading too much in the look from Artur’s dark eyes—and besides they had to get back to Rothier. There was no time for diversions of any kind.

Irminhart woke up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, the vision of Rothier being attacked fresh in his mind’s eye. Artur was by Irminhart’s side in a second, his hand like a balm on Irminhart’s good shoulder.

“What if we’re too late?” Irminhart asked, his breath coming short as his heart raced. “What if they march on Rothmar? Or Eker, which will certainly be an easier target?”

Artur didn’t try to give him false sympathy. “They might—but Rothier is strong. Rothmar will fight back. As will Eker. We will make it to the King as quickly as we can.”

Irminhart shuddered and Artur put his arm around Irminhart, anchoring him on his right side of his torso, carefully managing to avoid disturbing Irminhart’s arm. Irminhart let Artur’s warmth warm him as well and he rested his head on Artur’s shoulder.

Neither of them said much else and Irminhart couldn’t sleep, so they sat there for what felt like hours until he opened his eyes in the early dawn to realize that he lay curled up against Artur on the bedroll. Artur was fast asleep still, his arm holding Irminhart close.

If he were a better, more honorable man, he would have gently disengaged himself. But, he didn’t, nestling in closer and letting himself fall back to sleep for just a few minutes.

They rode hard and long that day, making their way into higher and higher elevation, until they left the dried riverbed to head straight north, taking them to the mighty Frena. It was the end of the season, so Frena’s power was somewhat lessened than in the start of spring, but in certain places, she stood at the span of two men across and in others twenty men.

The areas where she was the shortest across were the most tempting, but also the most dangerous, so Artur and Irminhart spent some time going down the river, trying to find the best opportunity to ford it. It took them nearly an hour to find an area where the Frena trickled over rocks and logs at about knee height and even then, they were diligent as they crossed, their horse thankfully placid about the encounter.

They refilled their water on the other side and then Artur looked at Irminhart’s stomach and then his arm, Irminhart looked back at the water and nodded. Both of them were dirty and dusty and Irminhart felt as if a layer of sweat had settled into armor around his body, excepting where Artur had cleaned his wounds.

“Come here,” Artur said and Irminhart walked over. Artur carefully raised Irminhart’s right arm while Irminhart raised his left and then he unlaced the top and pulled the shirt over Irminhart’s head. Irminhart awkwardly unlaced his own pants and left his shoes and clothes over by their tied-up horse. The cut on his left side had scabbed over, so Irminhart took off the bandage. He kept the bandage on his arm as it was.

Artur undressed much more quickly, shedding clothes and folding them neatly into a small bundle, his back turned to Irminhart and giving Irminhart free range to stare. He was just as heavily-built as Irminhart had guessed—muscles flexing as Artur moved and thickly corded in the sunlight. But as soon as Artur started turning around, Irminhart forced his gaze away.

“It’s going to be as cold as priests’ balls,” Irminhart said, but walked to the edge and stepped in anyways, the cold sending a shock up Irminhart’s spine that he valiantly ignored.

When he turned back to Artur (_his whole naked glorious front visible_), Artur had an odd look on his face. Irminhart threw him a challenging look. “Scared to come in?”

“Oh, I’ll show you scared,” Artur said and trampled in, hissing as he felt the coldness as well. Smarter than Irminhart, he’d brought along some spare rag and they both waded to about waist-level, Irminhart sneaking a few looks at Artur’s cock—thick and heavy despite the chill.

Suddenly Artur ducked underneath the water, coming up with a pure smile on his face, and the water streamed down his chest, running in rivulets and then beading up. Shivering slightly, he scrubbed at himself with the cloth, getting as much sweat and dirt as he could off while Irminhart could only stare in admiration. It was too dangerous to look—Artur could look up at any second—and yet, Irminhart felt reckless with excitement. So, what if Artur looked over—would it really change anything?

When he finished, Artur motioned Irminhart over and Irminhart went. He let Artur move his arm up, to make sure that no water inadvertently soaked through the bandage and then Artur dipped Irminhart awkwardly sideways and backwards to get his hair wet. The water sluiced through Irminhart’s vision. When his vision finally cleared, Artur was directly in front of him, barely a handspan away, and Irminhart thought about how easy it would be to just reach out and run his hands down Artur’s taut stomach, follow the trail of dark hair and then kneel in front of him, taking Artur into his mouth.

Artur reached out and with the wet cloth, began scrubbing at Irminhart’s torso, his hands firm but gentle as they pressed against him. Artur’s free hand kept moving across Irminhart as his other worked and each press was like a straight line to Irminhart’s cock.

Irminhart tried to think of anything—the frigidity of the water, the Goddess Zephryne smiting him, nesting vipers—but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of Artur now doing what he had been thinking of just a moment past.

“Does this hurt?” Artur asked, concerned, and Irminhart opened his eyes to see Artur almost flush against him as he examined Irminhart’s arm.

“No. It’s just,” Irminhart cast around for any logical excuse despite the difficulty of doing so when his mind couldn’t remove itself from the thought of Artur pressed up against him and rubbing together. “Gods—it’s just so cold.”

Artur gave Irminhart a long look, like he was evaluating the truth to Irminhart’s words. Irminhart couldn’t look away, Artur’s honey-brown eyes intoxicating. Slowly, Artur’s hand began to sweep up from Irminhart’s arm, cupping his shoulder before skimming up his neck and then resting right underneath Irminhart’s jaw, squeezing ever so slightly.

Irminhart had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted Artur to kiss him then and there.

Neither of them moved further, Irminhart’s heart racing fast in his chest, each breath feeling like a struggle over the desire coursing in his veins. He _wanted_ Artur so badly, he thought he might die of it if Artur didn’t get closer.

Artur moved and then from somewhere, a horse whinnied and they both sprang apart. Irminhart looked at Artur who was staring back at him, the same look of shock on his face that Irminhart had on his.

“The horse,” Irminhart said and they both leaped forward, dashing up the bank of the river. There was no panic, just the rush of adrenaline of the willingness to do battle and it was almost with disappointment that Irminhart saw that there was only their horse, neighing at the rope tying him to the tree.

Irminhart whirled around to scan behind them but there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The gods must be laughing now.

“Skies above,” Irminhart cursed underneath his breath. Although a part of him held out hope that the moment at the river could be rekindled, Artur looked stony-faced when Irminhart re-faced him.

“A false alarm,” Artur said. “But we should leave anyways—we can’t afford to be sitting idle while the sun is out.”

The sun shone brightly on Artur’s left arm and Irminhart focused on that for a second, letting the wave of anger that swept through him rage inside. What had Irminhart been thinking anyways? He had a duty here—a duty to report the Barthemeian attack. And a—a duty to Artur. To protect him, to follow his direction.

There was nothing but profound disgust for himself and Irminhart tucked that in before nodding to Artur. “Yes, we need to move,” he said. “We were foolish to even waste this much time.”

Artur didn’t disagree.

Riding pressed up against Artur felt like a just punishment.

That night, they stopped just as their vision began to diminish—their horse too precious to risk a rolled ankle or worse and found a place to camp.

Neither of them spoke much aside from “I’ll unload the horse,” or “Pass a bowl, please.” Artur’s presence was, as always, unceasingly there, bur Irminhart did his best to ignore it.

“How much farther is it to Rothier?” Artur asked.

Irminhart closed his eyes. “Another day and a half.”

“We’ll get there,” Artur said and glared at Irminhart fiercely, perhaps meant in some type of comradery, but made Irminhart want to rub ash in his face.

“I’m not hungry,” Irminhart said after a few more bites of flavorless cooked oats and dried meat.

“You should eat more,” Artur said. “You can’t afford to get sick.”

“I’m fine,” Irminhart hissed and when he stalked off, he felt the rewarding sweep of self-righteousness. It lasted until he’d set out his bedroll and made himself ready for bed. He turned away from the fire and Artur’s line of vision, but he wasn’t sleepy, just generally sore, in pain and irritated. But getting up would mean having to deal with Artur, so Irminhart stayed where he was until he heard Artur sigh and get up. He placed his bedroll next to Irminhart’s and then lay down.

“Goodnight,” Artur said, into the quiet.

Hours later, Irminhart woke with a start, his voice hoarse and screaming for murder as Artur held him down.

“Prince Irminhart, you have to wake up,” Artur was saying. “Irminhart, it’s just me—Irminhart!” His voice was urgent and scared and that finally called Irminhart fully awake.

Irminhart sucked in a lungful of breath and then another one, focusing on each breath that Artur took as if concert with Irminhart, steadying him.

“You’re ok,” Artur said. “You’re ok.”

They kept breathing together, in and out, in and out, until Irminhart’s heart began to calm down, the nightmare receding into mist, and Irminhart became aware of how close Artur was—he’d had to hold Irminhart down by pressing most of his weight against Irminhart’s shoulders, always conscientious of Irminhart’s right arm, and then his legs were draped over Irminhart’s, completely anchoring him in place.

Artur was close enough that Irminhart breathed in a little of his scent on every intake of breath, a subtle, intoxicating smell that made Irminhart think of the first real day of spring. Irminhart couldn’t help but lift his head up, close his eyes and take a deep breath, letting Artur’s smell overpower him.

When Irminhart looked back up, Artur was staring at him, and there was almost something pained in his face.

“Irminhart,” Artur said and dropped his head so that they were almost touching, breathing in the same air, each breath more desperate than the last.

For a long moment, neither of them moved and then Artur crossed the remaining distance, tentatively putting his lips to Irminhart’s. Irminhart kissed back, his mouth opening eagerly and his hands beginning to creep underneath Artur, desperate to start unlacing Artur. They were uncoordinated and desperate, kissing as they moved, pants hastily pushed down until Artur took them both in hand.

Neither one of them lasted very long, Irminhart coming quickly after having been on edge for what had felt like months, Artur right behind him with a long-drawn out exhalation. Artur pulled his bedding right against Irminhart’s and they lay there, skin cooling, and Artur’s hand curled protectively over Irminhart.

Irminhart felt free reign to touch Artur and made full use of it. He kept reaching over, feeling the tight press of Artur’s stomach or the thick arm muscles, Artur laughing a little at Irminhart’s blatant appreciation.

Eventually, Irminhart curled up into Artur, exhaustion overtaking him. Artur held him close until the morning.

Irminhart woke Artur up by gently kissing his body, carefully working his way up from Artur’s chest, to his neck, then his jaw and when he made it to Artur’s lips, he saw that Artur’s eyes were open and sparkling, so Irminhart took his chance and they kissed like fresh-faced youths for some time.

“We should get up,” Irminhart said eventually, although he wanted nothing more than to lay there.

Artur stopped him with a light press to Irminhart’s chest, his face suddenly serious. “I just—I have to ask,” he said and Irminhart tried not to get scared at the question, “did you allow me to kiss you because you feel some duty to me?”

Irminhart almost laughed at how ridiculous it was. Instead settling for a suggestive smile. “Only if you wanted me to.”

“Irminhart,” Artur said, his voice trying to be stern but his smile giving it away. “I’m being serious.”

“As am I,” Irminhart said, his smile growing even wider.

“I don’t want you doing anything because you felt that you had to,” Artur said and it was serious enough that Irminhart sighed but sat up.

“I meant what I said. I owe you my life. My allegiance is yours. But my affections are an entirely separate thing and I wouldn’t have kissed you or did what we did last night out of obligation. Despite everything, I like you and I hope that you like me. And liking you does make the idea of learning how to farm seem a little more pleasant. Surely you can’t begrudge someone this good-looking who is willing to help till your fields, both outside of your house and inside it.”

Artur laughed. “Someday, you will regret all of your farming jokes.”

Irminhart shrugged playfully and then drew Artur back down for another round of kissing.

“You are almost pleasant like this,” Artur said, extricating himself and standing up.

“I am a gods-given gift,” Irminhart grumbled and pushed himself up.

They didn’t have time for much of anything, urgency in their steps about returning to Rothmar, but they both felt in lighter spirits as they quickly rolled up the camp.

Just after their brief midday meal of yet more dried meat and fruits, Irminhart caught the sound of something moving behind them and gripped Artur hard. “Stop,” he said quietly and Artur immediately stopped the horse, turning a questioning eye back to Irminhart.

Irminhart closed his eyes and listened—faintly but surely there was the sound of horses in the distance—coming from behind them.

“Riders,” Irminhart said, his throat working as adrenaline crashed through him.

Artur’s face betrayed no emotion. “They’ll outrun us well before we make it to Rothmar.” Unsaid was that Barthemy would be sure to keep riders posted on the small path. This may be their only chance to fight on their terms, rather than the enemy’s.

Irminhart nodded and they quickly dismounted, agreeing without discussion that they could perhaps have a better chance of survival if they caught their attackers unaware. Artur went off to quickly tie their horse out of immediate sight, although the forest was sparse enough that they wouldn’t be able to escape detection fully.

He came back with Dietmar’s bow and arrows. “You stay in the forest line and shoot from there,” Artur said. “If you can get up into a tree, do it.”

“But—” Irminhart started. What Artur was proposing was beyond stupid—there could be ten or twenty men. Artur wouldn’t stand the barest chance.

“No,” Artur said forcefully and pushed Irminhart in the direction that he wanted them to go. “On my signal, you start shooting your arrows.” Before Irminhart could protest that, Artur pulled him in close and kissed him deeply.

“Now,” Artur said low and then ran off the opposite side of the path, hiding himself from the riders’ incoming sight behind a large tree. Irminhart did the same on his side and they waited as the thick sound of horses became loud, a small cloud of dust arising in front of the group, obscuring just how many members there were.

Irminhart took a deep breath and cast a thought to Zephryne. When Artur’s signal came, it was the low warble of a thrush and Irminhart, ignoring his instructions, burst through the trees, sword outstretched, just in time to meet the first thrust from the front rider.

The front rider was strong, but even with his injury, Irminhart was stronger and had knocked him over before immediately moving back and deflecting another attack.

“Stop!” Artur yelled. Irminhart ignored him. “Stop! Stop! Men, stop!”

Immediately everything went quiet except for the clank of Irminhart’s sword as he continued to fight with the man above him, his horse prancing more and more nervously.

“We will not surrender,” Irminhart yelled back. “Long live Rothier!”

“Irminhart, you idiot,” Artur yelled from somewhere behind him and then tackled Irminhart by taking out his legs. The next thing that Irminhart knew, he was pinned down, Artur’s weight holding him steady, in a parody of the previous night as the shock of betrayal crept through Irminhart’s body.

“You were working with the Barthemeians?” Irminhart said, his body feeling number than he would have thought possible. “But—”

“No,” Artur said definitively. “I am not working with the Barthemeians. But these are not Barthemeians, they are Eileifrer.”

Now that Irminhart could look, he saw that although they wore outfits that any traveler would wear, each had closely cut hair and their hilts bore the mark of the royal house of Eileifr. Each knelt with one leg, their faces tracking Artur’s every move.

“How did you know?” Irminhart said slowly, a nebulous connection trying to come to him, but staying just out of reach.

Artur didn’t say anything, just moved slightly back, allowing Irminhart to sit up and look at the group assembled all around them.

It was there—and Irminhart didn’t want to believe it—it was a different betrayal, but it managed to hurt all the same.

“My king,” the front rider said and this time, when Irminhart looked back at Artur, his eyes were slanted away.

Someone gave Irminhart a horse, presumably more willing to share with another rider than risk offending a foreign prince while in his country. Irminhart didn’t point out that his arm made gripping the reigns difficult. If Artur had any opinions, he didn’t share them, and Irminhart had no desire to seek them out.

When Irminhart pushed himself up onto the saddle. Each flex of his arm shot another sheet of pain through his arm, but he felt a dim sense of satisfaction that at least he could manage this by himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Artur staring at him, his face soft with concern, but Irminhart kept his eyes straight ahead.

No one said much of anything for the rest of the day. At a later break, a young soldier told Irminhart that they had been tracking Artur—the Eileifrer King—for some days after they’d apparently received some letter from him.

Irminhart smiled and nodded, as if it was just as amusing as the soldier seemed to think it was. What a conceit of the King! Going to visit their neighboring country!

That night, their camp was loud and boisterous, soldiers calling to each other and laughing, freshly caught meat being grilled over the fire, mouth-watering smells emanating. His young friend from earlier motioned Irminhart over and Irminhart went, more due to his desire to avoid certain areas of the campsite filled with Artur’s firm and steady voice telling one of the leaders about the Barthemeian attack than out of actual inclination. But the men all seemed in awe of Irminhart.

“Did you really challenge the King to a duel?” one of the men asked, his gaze disbelieving.

Irminhart nodded.

“And you lived to tell the tale!” another laughed. “He’s the best swordsman in Eileifr.”

Irminhart nodded again as everyone boggled at him.

“You must be an excellent swordsman,” another soldier said. Normally, Irminhart would have been proud to claim that, would have been happy to speak more about sword fighting, but instead he shrugged and looked away, hoping that they would pick up his hint.

The group did—their attention wandering onto another topic, and their voices mingled together, giving Irminhart the start of a headache, until Irminhart stood up to relieve himself.

When they ate, Artur placed himself next to Irminhart. Once or twice, Artur roused himself.

“How is it?”

“It is excessively pleasing, your majesty,” Irminhart said. One could not rail against the head of a bordering country despite how much one might wish to do so. Instead, Irminhart marshalled every tool of courtly behavior to his disposal.

Artur frowned. “I’m glad,” he said slowly. “But I would prefer if you call me Artur—we’ve traveled a long ways together, surely that doesn’t need to change now.”

Irminhart bowed his head as low as it would go. “I apologize, your majesty, but I fear that I must defer to proper protocol.”

Artur looked further perplexed at that. He tried again. “How is your arm feeling?”

“I thank your majesty for his concern,” Irminhart said. “But it is taken care of.”

Throughout the meal, Irminhart rebuffed each of Artur’s questions, wishing that Artur would take the hint and leave him alone, to let Irminhart lick his wounds in peace. But Artur kept trying. And yet, despite the many questions, Irminhart carefully noted that there was no apology.

The group sighted the rise of Rothmar’s castle and its walls by mid-morning the next day and, with such a large escort, once they rejoined the People’s Road, they passed more quickly through the crowds than their outbound journey.

Briefly, guards detained them at the entrance gate, looking at the swords of the Eileifrer men before Irminhart’s presence called a higher commander who quickly took in their news and brought Irminhart and Artur before the King.

Briefly, while various soldiers and secretaries ran around trying to find the appropriate people, Artur and Irminhart were left alone in the antechamber to the King’s throne room.

“What do you think the King will do?” Artur asked Irminhart.

Irminhart glanced at Artur. “I feel that it’s not prudent to posit on state secrets before a foreign king,” he said. “A friend and ally, that would have been different.”

“Irminhart,” Artur said firmly, a note of disapproval in his voice.

“Prince Irminhart,” Irminhart said.

“Prince Irminhart,” Artur said. “I already know what happened, I was there. If I wanted to ally with the Barthemeians, I would already have done so.”

Irminhart sighed and shrugged. “We will do what we’ve done before—send more troops to the border. Prepare for war. The Barthemeians will deny that it was them and claim that it was a renegade group. The troops will patrol the border until it becomes too expensive to do so. And then the cycle begins again.”

“It sounds like you need a permanent large force garrisoned there,” Artur said.

Before Irminhart could respond, an undersecretary opened up the door to the throne room and ushered in Artur and Irminhart. The King’s gleaming gold chair momentarily blinded Irminhart and stood empty in the ornately decorated room. Adalbero, the commander of the King’s army and Gyrlin, the captain of the King’s guard, filed in a few moments behind them, along with several ministers, chief among them the minister of war. Everyone swarmed over to Irminhart and Artur, each wanting the recitation of their story about the Barthemeians attacking.

“What does it mean?” one of the ministers asked. “Are they attacking? Was it only a raiding party?”

“Were there more men?” the commander of the King’s army asked.

Irminhart could have made a guess, but there seemed no point in it. With a loud bang of the doors at the back of the room, the King entered the room from the back entrance and everyone immediately went quiet.

The King motioned for Irminhart to start speaking and so Irminhart did, his voice carefully controlled as he told about the ambush and their subsequent flight. The King asked no questions until Irminhart said that they’d met the squadron of Eileifrer soldiers on their pell-mell trip back from Marz.

“I hear that was by design,” the King said. “Isn’t that right, King Artur?” 

Artur stepped forward. “Yes,” Artur said. “They were tracking me down—I’d alerted them that I was going to the Marz forest, at your request.”

The King, his face dark and closed, looked at Artur fully. “Just how did the Eileifrer King come to be before me, pretending to be a former soldier and farmer?”

Artur’s face was just as unreadable as Irminhart’s father. “When my father died this past spring, we received your renewed wishes for alliance. We Eileifrer are warriors at heart and I spent most of my life as a soldier. Only in my most recent years did I begin to learn diplomacy, something that still comes as foreign to me. Because I am a warrior—someone who likes to see and act—first, I thought to take your country’s measure by coming here and judging for myself. To see who exactly I would be allying with.” Artur spread out his hands as if in some measure of apology.

“And what have you seen?” the King asked.

Artur looked at Irminhart. “At first, I saw pride—misplaced, or so I thought. Now, I think that I see you are a good people, witty and insightful, willing to admit fault and mistake, eager to jump to a friend’s assistance and loyal to the end.” There was a pause as Artur considered his words.

“I would like to pledge my assistance,” he said. “To securing your border.”

Irminhart’s father took this in. “Come, let us talk,” he said. “Just the two of us.” He rose and gestured for Artur to follow him and together, the two of them left the throne room through a door in the back, leading to the King’s meeting hall. 

Irminhart was left there, the discussion of the King’s ministers getting louder and louder as they debated what course of action to take and so—without thinking too hard on it—he slipped out before anyone could even think to look for him.

The temple of Zephryne was as remote and unfriendly as he always remembered. The acolytes at the door nodded when he entered and didn’t disturb him as he made his way to the high priestess’s chambers.

The high priestess opened the door and Irminhart couldn’t even summon up the usual pleasure of seeing surprise and shock cross her face. “Mother,” Irminhart said and carefully looked away as he handed her the large bag. She carefully unwrapped it to reveal Zephryne’s shield. Irminhart felt like his heart would break.

“Oh, my youngest son,” the head priestess said after a long moment. “The Goddess provides.”

“Did it provide for Dietmar and Tilusch?” Irminhart snapped.

“The Gods and Goddesses work in ways that we cannot understand,” Irminhart’s mother said. “I cannot say what their plans for Dietmar and Tilusch were. But I trust in my Goddess. There was a reason that she wanted you in the Marz forest and there was a reason that she wanted Artur there as well. I do not doubt that, even if you might.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time, Irminhart tracing the elaborate gold and blue lined tapestry on the high priestess’s walls as he thought about the price of the intelligence that they had gained.

“I’ve pledged myself to the King of Eileifr,” Irminhart said abruptly.

The high priestess’s eyebrows rose at that.

“I did it before I knew that he was the king. It’s Artur—he is the King of Eileifr,” Irminhart said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “He saved my life.”

“I see,” the high priestess said. “And what do you think of him?”

“What does it matter?” Irminhart said. The high priestess did not respond. Finally, Irminhart growled in frustration. “You always do this! Fine, I liked him well enough when he was just Artur. I—would have followed Artur the farmer.”

“He may be a different farmer than the one you had imagined,” the high priestess said. “But he cares for his land, manages it and ensures that its crops, be they people or food, grow and are healthy.”

Irminhart didn’t have an answer for that.

Eventually his mother spoke again, her voice quiet and loving. “Trust in yourself.”

Irminhart returned to his room around sunset. Artur had let himself into his rooms and was sitting in the receiving room, his attention out the window at the setting sun. When he saw Irminhart, he stood, his face so handsome and formal that it made Irminhart’s heart squeeze painfully.

“We need to talk,” Artur said.

Irminhart held up a hand. “Before you say anything, I need to know something and I need you to answer truthfully. Why did you let me moon over you like some cow-eyed child? Was it revenge for challenging you? Were you laughing each time I talked about following you to your farm?”

Artur shook his head. “No, it wasn’t revenge at all. Just—fear. And any mooning that you did was entirely reciprocated by me.” He cleared his throat and then continued. “The King and I have agreed, in principle, on a force to be stationed throughout the Barthemeian border. Several squads have already ridden out to the border to meet any additional Barthemeians coming over. The country will be protected.

“I’ve also called my council here—we will negotiate an alliance in truth between our two countries,” he said, his gaze fixed on Irminhart. “I would like you to be a part of this alliance.”

“I am flattered, your majesty,” Irminhart said, his heart hurting again, uncertain of what Artur was trying to say. “But I’m not sure what role I would play here.”

Artur bit his lip and for the first time, Irminhart realized that Artur was nervous—he hadn’t even been aware that it was possible. “I realize that our initial meeting could have gone better,” Artur said.

“Probably, yes,” Irminhart agreed. “Although that does make one wonder—is there anyway that it could have gone worse?”

“Well,” Artur said philosophically, “we both could have died back in Marz.”

Irminhart laughed despite himself. “Yes, that would have been worse.”

“I was waiting for the right time to tell you about myself,” Artur said. “And then suddenly, it became startling clear that there was no right time, only increasingly worse times.”

Irminhart shrugged and looked down at his hands—the skin on the palms callused from the heavy riding. “I meant what I said,” Artur said, his voice serious. “I want you.”

“You want me? Or you want this alliance?” Irminhart asked.

“Irminhart,” Artur said, his voice almost a plea. Irminhart’s heart thumped painfully and something must have shown on his face because Artur reached to cautiously put his hands on Irminhart’s shoulders. “I would ally with you regardless, but I would also want you regardless. You are loyal to the end, willing to sacrifice yourself to save a friend. When you’re not taking umbrage at pretend insults, you’re a good friend. And, perhaps most important, I can’t stop thinking about what it was like to finally kiss you and lie with you. There have been good marriages based on far worse things.”

Artur moved his hands to Irminhart’s face, cupping his cheeks. Irminhart made no move to stop him, his body too desperate for more of Artur’s touch, too happy to give itself over to Artur’s care. He drew Irminhart in for a kiss and Irminhart opened up beneath him, letting Artur gently lick his way into his mouth, until Irminhart grew too desperate and took charge, biting and kissing Artur with a frenetic energy until they were both lying on the bed, their clothes haphazardly on the floor next to Irminhart’s bed.

“You pledged your loyalty to me when I was Artur the farmer, bane of your existence,” Artur said. “Is it so much worse to follow me now?”

Irminhart couldn’t find a way to put his words into thoughts and so he kissed Artur instead.

Irminhart woke several hours later, darkness settled over the city, to Artur sitting up. He kissed Irminhart gently on the lips and smiled at him and it made something in Irminhart clench painfully hard.

The next morning, he was summoned before his father to his rooms.

“Well, Irminhart,” the King said. “I could order you to marry the King of Eileifr, but something tells me that he doesn’t want a marriage under duress, no matter how prettily I might try to bribe you.”

“And how well has bribery worked for you in the past?” Irminhart asked.

The King glared at him. “All of my other children are easier than you.”

“It’s a shame that those children are not here in front of you right now,” Irminhart said.

“Yes,” the King said and breathed out a sigh. “As you see, I cannot force your hand in this. So, let’s have it then. What is your decision?”

Irminhart took a deep breath. “Yes,” Irminhart said and his voice echoed loudly through his father’s empty throne room.

Irminhart’s father stared at him, his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching. “Fine,” he said. “Fine.” Irminhart heard the coiled spring in his voice, but kept his eyes fixed on the older man until eventually the King frowned. “Is that it?”

“No congratulations on such a blessed union?” Irminhart said. The King raised an eyebrow and then laughed, shaking his head slowly.

“Congratulations to my youngest son,” the King said. “Come, let us both tell your mother the good news.”

When Artur returned to his room, his shirt soaked through with sweat, he stopped short with surprise when he saw Irminhart sitting there on his bed. He clearly hadn’t expected that Irminhart would seek him out so quickly.

“Your lodging has certainly improved,” Irminhart said. “Over your first residence in the city.”

“Wait until you see the royal chambers in Alfrik,” Artur said.

“I am expecting that they will be very impressive,” Irminhart said. “And you know how I feel about disappointment.”

Artur gave him a look. Irminhart raised an eyebrow. Artur furrowed his brow, wondering if he was reading Irminhart correctly. When Irminhart smiled, Artur’s face opened, wonderingly.

“Is that a yes?” Artur asked.

Irminhart smiled again, a hint of nerves about it, but then Artur was smiling widely, reaching in and pushing Irminhart to the bed below.

“I will make you very happy,” Artur said, his voice serious.

“And I will make you very happy,” Irminhart agreed.

And they did.


End file.
